Cuba Straits Read online

  The letters would bring cash from collectors, no doubt, but weren’t worth killing for, although Tomlinson disagreed—not that a man who didn’t speak Spanish could be relied upon to judge. He’d only had time to leaf through the folder, fearing his van was being followed.

  Figueroa Casanova was no help. He’d refused to participate due to a moral conflict, some childhood vow to never lie.

  No matter. One thing Ford had learned after years of dealing with international intrigue types, power players such as Gen. Juan Simón Rivera: everything was potentially dangerous, nothing was what it appeared to be.

  For Ford, it felt like arriving home without leaving Sanibel.

  The generalissimo had called around five from a blocked number. He’d sounded subdued; didn’t mention the missing shortstop, but did say, “Make sure you’re not followed.” That meshed with Tomlinson’s claims. So at the Sky Bridge, Ford checked mirrors before turning left onto Main Street, which wasn’t much of a street, just a long asphalt lane. For a mile, it separated the shrimp docks from a geometry of mobile homes fenced and spaced in rows, in contrast to weeds and Elvis-era rentals on the other side.

  Rivera was, indeed, traveling incognito. Perhaps that’s why he had provided directions, not an address.

  Ford slowed, looking for a dirt road, and noticed a black Suburban behind him. He waved the vehicle around, used a pencil to jot the license number, and watched the SUV drive several blocks, then turn. Rivera’s cottage was bayside, fifty meters past a house with dogs chained in back, and the first drive after a sign that read Weekly Rates. As described, a white Mustang from Hertz was in the drive.

  Ford didn’t pull in. Using his phone, he photographed the house, then drove to the end of the street before looping back and parking under a banyan tree. More photos. He scanned for neighbors and surveillance cameras. Cigar smoke and loud salsa music suggested Rivera was inside. In the back of the Mustang, an empty rum bottle warned the general had been drinking.

  A training exercise, that’s what this felt like. One of those hide-and-seek games at Langley or at the Blackwater facility across the Virginia line in Moyock, North Carolina. Evolutions, they were called, a new game for every day of the week. As demanding as the courses were, key elements couldn’t be simulated, such as fear of the crosshairs, or an adrenaline spike that, in the real world, caused some men to vomit, others to freeze.

  The cottage was faded wood on pilings. Ford was still in practice mode when he approached the front steps—then everything changed. The side door to the garage was open, but the main doors were closed. A small detail that seemed all wrong in this neighborhood.

  He veered to get a different angle. Beyond a tangle of hibiscus, a black SUV had nosed into a lot where boats were racked, most covered by tarps. A man wearing coveralls and a tool belt was standing there. He pretended to inspect a boat but was actually eyeing Rivera’s cottage—the cottage on stilts above the floodplain, so Ford was able to slip underneath the cottage into the garage unseen.

  The same Suburban? He wasn’t sure, couldn’t see the license. Above him, through the floor, came music and a muffled bearish voice: the general talking, but a one-sided conversation . . . a phone call.

  Talking to whom?

  Ford moved to the window. The man in coveralls, no phone in hand, was crossing backyards toward the cottage. He was dressed like a cable installer, but cable guys drove vans, not black Suburbans.

  FBI? An undercover detective, possibly.

  When Cable Guy was closer, Ford decided, No. Feds and local pros don’t mount sound suppressors on their weapons. This man had. From his coveralls, he’d produced a pistol with a lethal-looking tube on the barrel, now close enough to thump his shoulder against the garage while he paused and took stock.

  Ford, on the other side of the wall, felt that thump, separated by half-inch particleboard, and knew this wasn’t a stakeout. Cable Guy was a killer. At the very least, he was prepared to kill as quietly as ballistics allowed.

  A pro—or too many movies.

  It was the way Ford’s mind worked.

  Overhead, Rivera, still on the phone, turned the music louder, which proved the conversation was important, and began to pace. His weight sprinkled dust onto a floor that was packed shell, not cement, junk piled everywhere. The particleboard was slick like moldy bread. Spongy enough to put a fist through. But then what?

  Ford’s brain shifted from spy games to protocol.

  There were two options: remove the asset (Rivera) from harm’s way or neutralize the threat. Training didn’t allow a third, which was to run like hell, although he was tempted. This was Rivera’s problem, damn it. On the other hand, they shared a history, and “neutralize” didn’t necessarily mean “kill.”

  In every garage are weapons: clubs and cutting edges and fire accelerants. He chose something milder, a can of Raid Wasp & Hornet Killer, and put an eye to the window. Cable Guy had rounded the corner and was opening a utility box. Part of his act or he was actually doing something, no way to confirm. Ford, an analytical man, went to the door, dropped to a knee, and waited. A lot could be learned from how a gunman entered a room.

  Cable Guy was pretty good. Came through textbook-fashion: empty hand up as a shield, the pistol at high ready while his eyes scanned what is called the fatal funnel. Then stepped through to confront the room’s unseen wedge, his shooting arm not fully extended, but enough. Also, he pivoted too slowly.

  Ford, from his knee, grabbed the pistol, clamping hard enough to freeze the slide, and used the wasp spray while forcing the barrel down and away. Jetted the man’s eyes and mouth as they wrestled for control, Ford thinking, Pull the trigger, damn you. That’s what he wanted: freeze the slide until one muted shot emptied the chamber without cycling another round. With both hands free and the weapon disabled: end of story.

  Instead, the pistol tumbled free. Cable Guy, rather than diving for it, charged blindly. Ford sprawled, spun behind, and used the wasp spray again, but sparingly: one blast in the mouth to silence the man, that’s all. Gagging, the man crawled a few yards and pawed at his eyes.

  Ford empathized. Spray had slipped under his glasses, and his left eye was tearing. The damn stuff was oily; it burned. He retrieved the pistol, and used a rag that wasn’t too grimy. The pistol was a .22 Beretta with a mag full of subsonic hollow-points—a favorite of the Mossad and assassin pretenders.

  Above them, Rivera was still yakking, oblivious. Outside, no sign of movement within the Suburban. Ford dropped the rag near Cable Guy’s hand, saying, “Use this and keep your voice down. So far, this is just between us. Who sent you?”

  The reply was emphatic but garbled, while Cable Guy scrubbed at his eyes.

  “Any other weapons?”

  A shake of the head.

  Ford would have checked anyway. No billfold, no cell phone, but a mini Sig Sauer in an ankle holster, which he pocketed after clearing the chamber. The tool belt had a pocket—two tiny gel transmitters with alligator clips. In the breast pocket of the coveralls, a batch of freshly minted business cards: Ace Cable & Utility / Largo, Florida. No logo, but an 800 number. At the bottom: Hector Spalding / Your Installation Specialist.

  Ford almost smiled. A fake name on a cheap card, yet it meant something to him. Since the 1930s, when the U.S. Marines introduced baseball to Nicaragua and Masagua—Cuba much earlier—spies, spooks, and hit men from Latin countries often deferred to their baseball gloves when choosing an American pseudonym. Wilson or Rawlings was a common fake name; Spalding, MacGregor, and Louisville considered more creative. In esoteric circles—the fifth-floor embassy types—“José Wilson” had become a euphemism for “Latino spy,” an inside joke.

  Ford, voice low, said, “This is a piss-poor cover story. Come to do a hit while the sun’s still up, people around? That’s stupid. Or whoever sent you is stupid. Do yourself a favor and talk.”

  Cabl
e Guy, inhaling fumes, croaked, “Shit . . . how can I? This rag, man, it just makes it worse,” yet continued to rub his eyes while toxic oil constricted his throat. The accent was Spanish—Cuban, possibly—but faint. A man who’d spent most of his twenty-some years in the States.

  Ford said, “Don’t do anything stupid,” and went out the door. He returned with a hose, kinked, dripping water. He flushed his own eyes, then told the man, “Sit up—sit on your hands—and cross your legs. Now tilt your head back. No, damn it, keep your eyes open.”

  That didn’t work very well, so he held the Beretta and watched Cable Guy wash his face, gargle and spit, repeating the process several times, before Ford kinked the hose again and jammed it under the door. “What’s your name?”

  “It’s right there, man. You can’t read?”

  “Your real name.”

  “Hector. I need more of that hose, then maybe my throat’ll work better.”

  “I’m not going to play question-answer.”

  “You got a problem, call the cops. You ain’t no cop, and this shit in my eyes ain’t mace, so we both go to jail. What you think about that?”

  Ford said, “Not so loud,” and picked up the wasp spray, which scared Hector more than the gun. After two false starts, Ford looked at his watch to show impatience. Didn’t say a word—silence, the ultimate threat—even when Rivera turned the salsa music louder and clomped toward what might have been the bathroom.

  Hector, listening, decided to strike up a conversation with his raspy voice. “You’re wrong, what you said. I ain’t stupid. A customer wants his ESPN working when he gets home. Nothing stupid about a repairman walking through yards, going into a house, while it’s still light.”

  Ford waited.

  “Assaulted me, doing my job.”

  He listened to more of this before pointing upstairs. “The guy you came to kill? If he finds out, he’ll glue your eyes shut and cut off an ear. You still don’t talk, he’ll make you eat it. Your own ear. Super Glue or sometimes tape, that varies, but not cutting off an ear. It’s what he does.”

  Hector sat at attention. “You actually seen him do that? I heard something similar, man, but figured it was bullshit.”

  “It’s not.”

  “You were actually there?”

  “I walked away. Why would I stick around? But I heard it happen at least twice.”

  “Guys screaming, you mean, then he makes them swallow, huh? Shit . . . they’d have to do some chewing first.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Jesus Holy Mary. After that, he tells the prisoner—interreges is the right word—he says to them, ‘Listen to what your gut tells you. I’ll wait.’ Or your ‘inside voice’—something similar—is what I was told. Sounded like bullshit to me. Is it true?”

  Rivera did everything with a flair, it was possible. Ford nodded.

  “No shit? Why you think I came armed?”

  Ford replied, “That’s fairly obvious.”

  “No . . . not to kill the man, but as a precaution for my own personal defense. In the security business, that’s what we’re taught. Something else I was told”—Hector, becoming cautious, looked up—“well, that Rivera . . . General Rivera . . . was traveling with a . . . not a bodyguard, exactly, but some serious badass. You know, as in approach with extreme caution. Safety first, man. I’m not some crack addict. We have what’s called a procedural checklist. That don’t mean I came to kill anyone.”

  No need for more wasp spray. Ford, placing it on the ground, added flattery. “From the way you came through the door, I knew you’d had some training. Keep talking, maybe we can work this out.”

  “From how I handled myself, you mean? Same with you, when you grabbed my weapon—but I expected this psycho Cubano, not a gringo-looking dude. Not that I’m making excuses.”

  “Oh?”

  Hector, speaking as one pro to another, said, “Tell me something. If I’d pulled the trigger, would it have blown up? I’ve heard different things about freezing the slide. Not from anyone with the balls to actually, you know, experiment, so I’m interested.”

  The temptation was to point the Beretta and demonstrate, but better to keep things moving. “Who told you I was Cuban?”

  Hector, sitting on his butt in dirt, replied, “I’ll talk, but I want my weapons back. That one there”—a nod at the Beretta—“don’t belong to me. I’ll lose my job, man, if I can’t account for that suppressor. Don’t screw with the ATF, right? And you’ve got to promise not to tell the general until I’m gone. Hey—is he really a general?”

  After a long, uneasy silence while Ford stared, the man added, “I ain’t saying you’re crazy. This Cuban dude, I mean. More of a murderer than a pro.”

  Another chilly silence. “Man . . . by ‘gringo,’ I didn’t mean no racial slur. That’s what I was told: a Cubano who escaped and hooked up with Rivera. The big concrete jail in Havana—a prison asylum, I’m talking about, the one by the baseball field on your way to José MartÍ. You never been to Cuba?”

  Ford thought, Uh-oh. “What’s the guy’s name?”

  “The psycho Cuban?”

  “Of course.”

  Hector sensed an opening. “Do I get my guns back?”

  Ford picked up the wasp spray.

  As applause died down, Figueroa Casanova, enjoying his first ride on a sailboat, waved both hands at the crowd on Mallory Square and asked Tomlinson, “Brother, how’d you get so famous in Key West? Must be a hundred women, but the men, even that juggler, they’re clapping, too.”

  Tomlinson, at the wheel, was kicked back, steering with his feet. “Naw, man, they do this every sunset. Hey . . . mind digging out another beer?” He pointed, wearing frayed shorts and a T-shirt that read BUM FARTO, CALL HOME.

  Figgy had puzzled over the strange American words, but his interest had moved on. “They clapping just because the sun goes down?”

  “Like a tradition, yeah.”

  “Brother, you’re too modest. Every day since I was born, the sun comes up, it goes down, except in prison—no windows in my cell, you know?—but I’m pretty sure it happened anyway. Why they so happy about night coming?”

  Tomlinson cocked his head. “You did time? Why’d the pigs lock you up?” Which, even to him, didn’t sound right in Spanish, so he translated, “Cops, I mean. Not ‘time’ as in clock time.”

  Figgy replied, “I don’t need a clock to know night from day when I see it.” He couldn’t take his eyes off so much activity, flaming torches, cats jumping through hoops, and too many gringas with nice chichis to count. “No, this afternoon I’d of noticed any pretty fans from the dugout. Those women, they looking at you, brother.” He opened the Igloo, grabbed two beers fast so as not to miss anything.

  Tomlinson considered what he’d just heard while his eyes lived in the moment: tourists and locals packed along the seawall, tangerine clouds over the Tortugas, the air sweet with coconut oil, Gulf Stream jasmine, and some professional-grade weed that only a true pirate town could handle with dignity. A slow turn of the head and there was Key West Bight, the Turtle Kraal docks busy where he often tied his dinghy, although the sandy spot at the end of Simonton was better for swimming naked.

  Whoops . . . His head jolted and pivoted the other way. Christmas Island astern, a colony of sailboats floating where, three weeks ago, he’d moored No Más before taking a taxi boat, the Magic Penny, ashore. Then late this afternoon, after the ball game, the same in reverse but with a stop at Fausto’s Food Palace to buy provisions, then another stop at Marine Hardware on Caroline. No charts of Cuba available, but hemp for a boom vang and extra shackles might come in handy, as would oil for the dinghy’s little Yamaha outboard, boat and motor both secured forward atop No Más’s cabin.

  The baseball team from Indiana had slipped a hundred bucks to Figgy, who’d picked the field clean and gone four for five wit
h two RBIs. Only a Coors Light to the scraggly-haired pitcher who’d closed the game—no runs, but three duck-fart bloopers beyond the range of Indianola Cadillac’s limping, over-the-hill fielders. Tomlinson was still peeved about that. But he had gotten the save and paid for provisions anyway.

  No problem. He’d inherited a family fortune, but that wasn’t the reason. The last thing he’d expected was the little shortstop to ask to accompany him to Cuba, and the chaos he’d recently escaped, all because of a promise he’d made to watch the briefcase.

  The deal was done when Figgy finally perused the letters and saw what they contained.

  Comrade, Tomlinson thought, I am proud to have you aboard.

  Honor . . . conviction . . . loyalty—the little dude personified everything good about the Revolution, which, of late, had been made a mockery by snot-nosed dilettantes and political traitors. This sad truth had brought Tomlinson near tears more than once. He accepted the beer, sopping ice chips with his shirt, and toasted his new shipmate. “Solidarity, man.”

  Figgy was wary of political slogans. He demurred by asking what BUM FARTO, CALL HOME meant.

  “That’s what everyone called the guy. Bum. He was the fire chief in Key West years ago. One night, he got in his car and was never seen again. Farto, his real name. Seriously. Which reminds me . . .” Tomlinson checked his phone, seeing his last text to Ford, which read Sailing south on a righteous mission. Stop your damn worrying. He switched it off and added, “You can’t be too careful down here on the Keys.”

  Figgy had refocused on a group of gringas, five or six with their chichis bouncing while they yelled something across the water. “Those women love you, brother. Modesty, yeah, that’s sometimes good, but it won’t get you no papaya. Maybe they’d enjoy a boat ride—make some hot oil with us. You think?”

  Tomlinson smiled at the Cuban slang and checked Mallory Square. Yes . . . a redhead and a blonde he recognized—possibly several familiar faces jumbled back there in memory. Over the years, he’d dropped anchor in bedrooms from Duval to Cudjoe Key, but women always looked so different wearing clothes instead of body paint. He replied, “Those whom Key West does not kill, it enlightens. That’s why we’re not turning back.”